person K Taylor, one poem

beautiful, the broken chair
on a december night:
crown me the king of the
babylonian sacaea and I’ll
die in a sea of electric foam,
under stones and in the
eyes of reminiscing stars;
seattle, washington, further
than you’d think, faster than
scarecrow new york. to die
happy is to not die at all,
worshipping the sleep-deprived
hounds and ghost-stricken
youths, the time of day, and
the monsters in the walls.
if only the striped tigers
and mystery roads could reach
the coffee-stained phonebooks
and travel together to your
luxury hotel room ears,
imagine the places you’ll
forget in old age and fatigue,
(I the doomed king, you the
queen, destined for a life of
quiet intensity)
the locks and the doors,
the smile and the shades of blue,
the frozen breath, caught in a
jar, on a winter day.